


We sink, we float

by TequilaMockingbird



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alley Sex, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Artist Zayn, Banter, Best friend Niall, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plants, Smut, Swimming Pools, Teacher-Student Relationship, swim teacher harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TequilaMockingbird/pseuds/TequilaMockingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But you have to admit.” Harry tilts his head with another grin “it’s a killer excuse to ask you on a date...” Zayn stops laughing “theoretically of course.” </p><p>Zayn doesn't date. Especially not theoretical ones.</p><p>[Based on the prompt: Harry teaches Zayn how to swim].</p><p>Or the one where Harry and Niall are swim teachers, and Zayn nearly dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> But alas, I cannot swim.

So this is what drowning feels like.

 

Not starved, but overwhelmed by oxygen, hydrogen; just a spec of the combination feels like fire in the lungs. Eyes tight, arms flail, too much too fast but slow. Grasping writhing sinking.

 

Speed, then green eyes.

  
*

 

Alpha males are his hamartia. Zayn's penchant for overt masculinity has been his signifier since his preteens, and he has a catalogue of exes to match; the personal trainer, the professional boxer, the plumber. Brawny men. Bearded men. Broad men. Bad men. In his logical brain, it just made sense; they were big where he was slight. Opposites. He's a man of habit, of patterns, of addiction. And he's sucker for a cliché.

 

But now Zayn found himself faced with an entirely different type of man. Here, bright eyes, dimples, lean tattooed limbs were sending that telltale shiver of electricity down his spine.

 

It doesn't make sense.

 

“Harry” The guy offers his hand for a shake as he checks Zayn’s pulse with the other; a long forefinger lingering a little too long on a body very obviously gasping for breath.  
  


Harry.

 

Niall had mentioned a Harry before - Harry the laugh - who Zayn vaguely remembered being brought up in conversation, but he hadn't expected this, he hadn’t expected remarkable. To be honest Zayn had sort of thought Harry would be fat- in his experience funny people usually were- and so he hadn’t spared him any thought. But Zayn hadn't realised just what exactly he’d been missing. If he'd known about the green eyes, and the collarbones he'd have brought Niall lunch EVERY DAY.

 

Plus Harry turns out to be pretty good in the life saving department, if Zayn's consciousness is anything to go by. You wouldn't have thought it, looking at those arms, which were lean, very lean. But appearances can be deceiving, and Harry's living proof of it.

 

Zayn takes an active interest in Harry’s arms; the skin of his right one is covered in ink. Harry’s gait, his smile, everything Zayn’s learnt about him in the first few seconds of meeting is readjusted to account for his tattoos. On closer inspection they are all as mismatched as the other, as if Harry'd been unable to choose a design he liked in the parlour and just got everyone he thought looked cool. A mermaid, an anchor, a birdcage, Hebrew lettering. It’s all there, and it’s messy, like a child let loose with a felt tip pen.

 

Nevertheless Zayn’s hooked, he wants to see whether they spread any further over his body other than his arms... Maybe a butterfly on the base of his spine, some lyrics on his hip. Something suggestive on his arse cheek. Zayn indulges in a few more before he reigns himself in.

 

He bites his lip hard and thinks of melons, dolphins, cancer.

_Better._

  
Luke warm water prickles Zayn's shoulder blades as the pool water seeps through his shirt. It makes his skin itch just thinking about the germs in the YMCA pool, and he wonders, not for the first time how anyone in their right might subject themselves to it willingly.

 

Zayn blinks the chlorine from his eyes, lying silent and frozen on the tiles. Breathless from possibly the most activity he'd done in years - not counting sex...

 

Which, well, no one ever really does. And Zayn isn’t sure if he wants to think about Harry and sex in the same sentence, not if Harry can barely control his own leg muscles. But on the other hand those arms bode well for, er, adventurous manoeuvres.

 

"Are you alright?" Harry looks concerned, probably thinks he's brain damaged. Now would be a good time to say something witty.

 

Zayn nods dumbly.

 

Harry clunks down beside him on the tiles, his inability to balance the catalyst to the whole mess in the first place “Not a swimmer then?” He offers Zayn a goofy smile, white teeth glinting.  
  


Harry has a good mouth, Zayn thought. Objectively.

  
Zayn frowns as he looks up, too dazed to do anything more strenuous. Nevertheless, he's indignant, he defies a man to respond in any other way to being dragged into a large body of water unexpectedly. His ability to swim is beside the point.

 

“I’ve never seen the need.”

Harry clears his throat. “Well its never too late to learn."

  
Zayn shakes his head defiantly, because it is too late; he’s 23, nearly 24, and he’s well and truly bypassed the age where wearing armbands is cute. Even with his cheekbones.  
  
“I’m a good teacher.” Harry argues.

 

Zayn laughs, taking the opportunity to give Harry a subtle once over again. Drowning incident aside, he highly doubted the guy’s capability. Half an hour previous he had been rendered completely incapable by a pool full of screaming eight year olds. Discipline was not his strong suit.

  
“Sure you are, champ.” Zayn cast his eyes over his own sodden body before directing a pointed look at Harry’s soaking uniform “You planned on nearly drowning me all along.”

 

Harry’s blush tells Zayn all he needs to know; tripping him had not been a deliberate seduction technique, but an inability to operate his own legs.  
  


He glances back at Zayn sheepishly “Yeah, sorry about that.”

 

“We all make idiots of ourselves sometimes.” Zayn smirks.

 

Harry laughs, eyes crinkling up at the corners, and Zayn’s reminded of a kid that he used to go to little school with way back. He has the same sunny innocence that had set Zayn’s mind at ease on his first day of school, and he wants to know more.

 

“Some of us more than others.” Harry rubs a hand down the back of his neck with a soft smile.

 

Zayn laughs easily.

  
“But you have to admit.” Harry tilts his head with another grin “it’s a killer excuse to ask you on a date...” Zayn stops laughing “theoretically of course.”

 

Zayn doesn't date. Especially not theoretical ones.

 

The concept itself terrifies him. A good fuck he can handle, he's used to that, good at it even. There was a sort of anonymity to sex that he found reassuring; a physical intimacy that allowed two - or three - people to memorise bodies while leaving the inner workings of the mind untouched. He parted with all his exes like strangers.

 

“And what if I’m not gay?” Zayn asks.

  
Harry hides his shock well “Who says I am?” He clears his throat “Can’t two guys go on a date without sexual implications?” It’s a shit cover story, but Zayn isn’t really in a place to call him out for fibbing, not when he’s been thinking about Harry on his knees, unzipping down his trousers, tangling his hands in that curly hair...  
  


_Shit._

  
Harry raises a brow, one that tells him that he's not fooled, that he knows all about him. Zayn's probably going to kill Niall - rip off his stupid laughing blonde head and use it for basketball practice.

 

The way Harry watches him makes him uncomfortable.

 

The same way Zayn is noticing the space between Harry’s legs - wet thighs - the magnetic way his eyes are drawn up and up to a crotch that he tried to decipher beneath the work issue shorts. No luck. The spread of Harry’s legs alone shocks heat into Zayn’s blood; thumping around his veins faster than Class A and overwhelming his thoughts. Thoughts of being between those thighs, bracketed by muscle, he could make his home there.

 

Zayn snaps away.

 

Leave it to Zayn to get hard for the guy who knocks him unconscious. And not unconscious in a hot, we’ve just engaged in breathplay, sado-masochistic way. In a, I just tripped over my own feet and pushed you into a large body of water by accident kind of way.

  
“I’ve ruined your sandwiches.” Harry pouts and they both turn their heads to watch the paper bag bob forlornly across the water.   
  
“Niall’s” Zayn shrugs.

 

He’d forgotten why he’d come. But watching the bag in the water reminds him that he’d been in the middle of a favour for his friend. He's forgotten the resentment he’d felt at having to lose his own lunch break, he ignored the avalanche beneath his shirt as his stomach protested. This morning he’d grumbled, now, he’d go on eternal sandwich runs.

  
“Well I suppose I'd better...” He pushes himself up onto elbows and then to his feet, shakily enough for Harry to scramble up alongside him.  
  
He hovers at Zayns elbow as he makes a redundant effort to shake the water from his hair “Are you going to get back to work okay?”  
  
Zayn laughs and kicks out one leg and then the other, letting the sound of the waterlogged denim do the talking for him.

 

No way would he be allowed back in this state.

 

There’s a pause where neither of them know what to do, Zayn’s eyes flicker desperately around the empty room searching for a conversation starter; too preoccupied to prod too much into his desire to stay exactly where he was.   
  
He let his eyes fall back on Harry when he came up blank “Thanks for not killing me.” He smiled before he turned to the door.  
  
But Harry can't let him leave.

 

“Let me teach you how to swim!” 

  
*

  
“Not happening.” He isn't sure when Niall had gotten so interested in his sex life, but it was beginning to irritate him. Apparently he’s not above interrupting him at work. Zayn makes a redundant effort to ignore him, brushing another stroke of duck egg blue on the wall.

 

Painting and decorating is a far cry from what he'd imagined for himself; a sort of laugh at the expense of his artistic promise. Doing up houses in Rotherham is the polar opposite of painting fine art; Selborne Street is alright, but it's no Sistine Chapel. Though he painted the ceiling lying on his back like Michelangelo - it's plain matte white, not _The Creation of David_.

 

Niall raps the metal of under Zayn's feet “He reads Proust for fucks sake!”  
  
Zayn places down his brush and steps down a few rungs “He’s a nice guy, really, but he nearly drowned me, and I just don’t see how an ability to read qualifies him to be my soulmate.”  
  
He won't mention the copy of In Search of Lost Time that's been on his bedside table for forever.

 

Niall raises his brows “Who said anything about soulmates?” He shoots Zayn a pointed look “I just thought you needed a good fuck and Harry… well he looks like he needs that too.”

  
Zayn flushes magenta, casting an eye around the room to catch his Dad politely sliding on his headphones in the opposing corner “Niall, you know he’s not…”  
  
“Yeh, yeh I know, _he’s not your type_.” He flicks eyes over Zayn’s face “But since when has your type ever paid off for you?”   
  


There’s an archive of his bad taste to back Niall up, and Zayn can’t argue; solid abs brake fists and hearts.

  
Zayn crosses his arms across his chest and shakes his head.  
  
“Never.” Niall answers for him, placed his hand on his arm gently “Look, just give him a chance, he’s a nice guy. Aaaand I’ve checked him out in the staff changing and he really ticks those gay boxes.”  
  
Zayn holds up his hand “And what boxes do _us gays_ like then?”  
  
“Big cocks.”   
  
Zayn trips down the final rung. His eyes widen dramatically, spluttering as he shoots a look over at his dad who is, thankfully, still occupied.

 

“He’s got one. You like them.” Niall looks at him pointedly “So when it comes down to it, fucking, you’re completely compatible.”    
  


Wildly, wildly inaccurate understanding of the gay lifestyle.

  
Zayn pushes aside the flickering excitement he feels at the thought, because thinking about Harry’s cock in the same room as his dad is playing with fire.

 

But he’s been in this situation with Niall before, and he wasn’t about to dive in headfirst with another one of Niall’s colleagues on false information. “How do you even know that he wants to er… get to know me better?” He takes a long drag of water from his bottle.

  
Niall looks sheepish, shifting from foot to foot "I might have been bragging about the size of your dick."

 

Zayn chokes " _The fuck?!_ "

 

Niall raises his brows pointedly "What? I've seen it a million times. I'm impressed."

 

"Why have you been talking about my dick?!"

 

“It just came up.” Niall shrugs “So I told him about yours, worth bragging about bro.”

  
“ _Stop talking about dicks!_ ” Zayn rolls his eyes.

  
"He seemed pretty interested." Niall perseveres and Zayn blushes darkly "So I'm telling you if you don't let him teach you to swim you're an idiot. He was so interested in your prick I doubt you'd ever make it into the water." Niall pauses with a smirk and a wiggle of his eyebrows "Doubt you'd even make it out the changing rooms."

 

“I hate you.”

  
Niall isn't deterred “You love me dickhead.” He smirks “He’s got that Hugh Grant thing you totally wank over to.” His blue eyes glint “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I mean, you’ve **_ruined_** _Love Actually_ for me, man.”  
  
This conversation is getting dangerous; Zayn can’t ignore his father’s presence in the room. He doesnt want to create an atmosphere at home... It was bad enough in the wake of naked blowjob, 2008.

  
So mostly to avoid more awkward eye contact at the family dinner table, he relents “Alright, give me the kid’s number.”  
  
“About that...” Niall shuffles away from Zayn’s outstretched hand to move out of the way of the doorway. Zayn knows who was there before Harry even shifts into view, grinning.  
  
“I’m free on Thursdays.”  
  


*

  
The blow job theory has nothing to do with Zayn finding himself at the pool a week later.

 

Afterall who was Niall to make such promises, chucking out free oral sex like some demented good samaritan.

 

Unfortunately for Zayn, the last few days had seen him develop an intolerance for forgetting; his dreams plagued with thoughts and possibilities that a new sexual conquest would bring. It was distracting.

 

He’d tried so hard to be early, counting on a few extra minutes to talk himself into walking out, and keeping his mind strictly off other things. But when he leaves the changing rooms, Harry is already waiting, leaning against the ladder at the shallow end.  
  
Harry looks ridiculous, his work issue blue polo slightly too loose, and his shorts slightly too tight; lost property chic. Endearingly silly. And just when Zayn has almost convinced himself that he's cool and uninterested.

 

Harry looks up at him with a bright smile, catching his eye as he flexes his arms uncrossed. The image shatters when he stumbles to his feet.

  
“Erm, nice tats." Zayn keeps his eyes on him as he approaches.

  
Harry startles, holding out his left arm while simultaneously rolling up his sleeve “Thanks…” He points at the rose on his forearm “Just got this one a few weeks ago.” Zayn dips his neck to look a little closer, in a moment envying the ink that claimed permanence on his skin.

_Ridiculous._

 

“I didn’t realise you had so many…”  
  
“Oh, I have more on my chest and...” Harry flips up the hem of his polo, making to strip the item off before he changes his mind with a flush. Not before Zayn catches a delightful glimpse of what's to come, shading and lines on the stomach and - Zayn’s throat tightens - _lower_.

 

He bites his lip.

 

“You have a fair few.” Harry jerks his head at Zayn’s arms.

 

He releases his lip, trailing his fingertips down his arm absently.

 

When he looks up Harry is blushing prettily, pink filling in the spaces between sun-starved freckles and illuminating his eyes. He blinks away as soon as their eyes meet. Zayn shakes the arousal from his head, and dropped his hands. This isn't good.   
  
Except it is.

  
Zayn let himself play “So...” He raised an eyebrow “where do you want me?”

 

Harry shifts at the innuendo, opening his mouth a couple of times before he betters Zayn.

 

“In the water please. Swimming doesnt work up here.”

 

Thats where the bravado falls away. 

  
It takes all his concentration to make his walk towards the ladder to look effortless, but Zayn managed it. Descending into the water is the worst part, feeling the water creeping slowly up his legs as he steps down and down. He lets out a bark of relieved laughter when he pulls off his final step and nothing untoward happens. He trails fingertips across the surface, taking tentative steps across the tiles; a foal learning to walk. He’s forgotten Harry is there at all until he feels his eyes on him. He drops his hands to skim the surface, smiling up at Harry self consciously.

 

Harry peels off his shirt, and Zayn’s smile slides from his face “What are you doing?”

 

His eyes trace the lines of Harry’s body art, past the familiar ones on his arms and into new territory. The swallows on his chest lead Zayn towards his nipples. He wants to taste them. The ferns on his hips distracting Zayn from, well, breathing. It is probably impossible to drown above the water, but Zayn has always thought of himself as a pioneer, and Harry is determined to kill him.  
  
“Getting in with you.” He shrugs.  
  
Zayn blanches, shoulders tensing as he watches Harry approach on the poolside, abs flexing beneath his blemishless skin. He can't see how he'll concentrate now. He wasn't far off the mark, he does have a butterfly tattoo. It doesn't surprise him exactly, but it doesn't exactly inspire his faith in him. There's a butterfly on his stomach. This is the guy who was in charge of not letting him die.

 

Harry surpasses the ladder and slides into the water from the poolside and takes Zayn by surprise, suddenly they are eye to eye and it has been too long since Zayn has been this close to a man - if we're not counting Niall, which Zayn never does - that he's overwhelmed by the urge to learn more about this stranger, with his hands. He needs to be close and closer still, his fingers itch to teach Harry their ways. His mouth is moments away from leading him down a path, pulling harry to him and changing things. Just an arms length away, if they only amputated that space and...

  
“What are you doing?” Zayn repeats dumbly, watching harry wade across.

 

"Teaching you to swim." Harry smiles "Here, catch." He pelts a pair of arm bands at Zayn, who is still slightly too dazed to properly react, they bounce off his forehead.

 

Zayn glances down at the orange rubber floating in front of him "No way" he folds his arms, he hadn't okayed the babying. He should've known that this was going to happen "I knew this was a joke I..." Zayn feels like a kid again, his face was burning hot with shame and embarrassment, and he is going to MURDER Niall... remove every single limb, slowly "Forget this." Zayn shakes his head and heads to the ladder.

 

But it's hard to make a quick getaway in water, the weight of it pushing back against him.

 

Zayn has pulled himself part way up the stairs before he feels Harry’s hand on his ankle.

 

"No, wait. I'm sorry. Just..." He lets out a frustrated sigh "Let me just try this once. One lesson yeah and then you'll be shot of me forever." He promises.

 

Harrys hand is warm on his skin. Zayn counts the blue tiles in a line in front of him to keep his focus. 23.

 

Zayn turns and searches his face for any trace of a lie "Okay" he nods "no more jokes."

 

"Promise." he holds out his hand to shake, and Zayn frowns, unwilling to let go of the rail “Sorry.” Harry backs up, allowing him space to manoeuvre.

 

Zayn retreats back until he finds his feet firmly on the tiled floor once more. He feels reasonably calm in the shallow end, cool water at his waist. If water was only ever this high he'd never have an issue.

 

"I hope this is okay? I find it's easier to start you off from the beginning if I'm in here with you?" Harry's switch into teaching mode is disarming, and Zayn’s drawn to the authority in his voice.

 

He nods his assent but Harry waits and watches Zayn's face carefully for twitches of contradiction until he's satisfied. "Okay, I'm going to let you kick things off to begin with. Can you show me what you know already?"

 

Zayn feels the cold shiver of embarrassment trickle down his neck, still rooted to the spot. Twenty three years old and still can't swim. He doesn't want to admit a word of it, but he can't bluff for the life of him. He can’t even float. How does he float?

 

A sharp panic grips him and he stays motionless. Even with Harry's politely averted eyes he can't perform. He knew it. Bad idea bad idea. Niall was an idiot, and he was a moron for believing him.

 

"How about I help you onto your back?" Harry rescues him.

 

It's a testament to Zayn's mood that he doesn't even acknowledge the innuendo, brushing over Harry's red cheeks, and letting out lungful of air in relief.

 

Harry presses a little closer "Okay so just lift your legs up and let them float to the surface."

 

Zayn doesn't like the sound of that, and even if he wanted to, he's pretty sure his legs are welded to the tiles. He’ll have to stay here forever.

 

"I can't swim."

 

Horrid memories of cousins ducking his head under water in the freezing Blackpool sea resurface to haunt him; little legs flailing, arms thrashing, lungful of salty water, and a surging hatred for women ever since. According to Zayn's research, people sink.

 

Harry counters his unspoken fears "But you can float. Everyone floats."

 

Zayn narrows his eyes in obvious doubt.

 

Harry chuckles "No seriously, it's science or something. I think it was on _Blue Peter_. Just relax and let the water do the work."

 

Zayn has his doubts about the scientific proof, but Harry has a trustworthy aura that he can’t resist. So he takes a leap; lifting his feet off the ground, and closes his eyes.

 

But the motion is too fast for him to float properly, he can’t do it. Harry's hand reaches out and places a balancing hand under his pine, levitating him on the surface.

 

"It's easy I promise, but it's difficult to explain without overcomplicating things... I'm probably doing it all wrong."

 

Zayn disagrees with a shake of his head; Harry was alright, it was him and his stupid uncooperative limbs; he scowls at his legs as they bobbed on the water. "I can't."

 

"You can." Harry's eyes are fire, jaw setting hard as their eyes meet again "You can have anything if you want it hard enough."

 

Zayn isn't sure where the urge to prove himself came from but it's there burning below the surface "Okay."

 

"Okay." Harry echoes, slowly tilting Zayn back to standing, he folds his arms "Again."

 

Zayn flexes his feet and pushes up again, his stomach swooping in coordination with the weightlessness of his limbs. The lack of control makes his limbs jerk before he gets horizontal. Once more Harry’s hand saves him.

 

The third time is somehow less of a shambles than before; Zayn’s hand accidentally brushes Harry’s crotch and it distracts him enough that he doesn’t realise he’s on his back. Harry, equally disarmed by the intimate contact, catches Zayn just in time, eyes wide, cheeks pink.

 

It's the shocked innocence that he can totally get down with.

 

The time after Zayn's foot connects with Harry's shoulder with a crunch that makes Zayn wince out an apology, but Harry's mask of determination never falls, and he floats Zayn effortlessly with the palm of his hand.

 

Fifth is the best of the lot, until Zayn turns his head a little too suddenly and gulps down some pool water. The chlorine burns his throat before Harry can warn him against swallowing, and Zayn feels the fire of embarrassment warming his stomach, colouring his cheeks. He scrambles to his feet and shirks eye contact, coughing into his fist with his back turned. Harry wants to tell him how good he’s doing, he wants to pull him to him in and hold him. He wants to feel his dark hair between his fingers. He wants to run his tongue down his set jawline and taste the aftershave on his tongue…   
  
And he’s distracted enough to say stupid things.

 

"It's easier in deeper water."

 

"No!" Zayn's eyes flash wide with betrayal.

 

Harry curses himself for undoing all his good work with one stupid sentence, and stammered out promises to the contrary “But I wouldn’t, not until you’re ready.” and he keeps his distance until Zayn’s shoulders lower and his head jerks a brief nod signalling that their trust has not been lost. Not yet.

 

He’s becoming stronger, unwittingly more comfortable with his own ability under Harry’s tutelage until the supporting arm is just a security blanket.   
  
Harry couldn’t deny that he burns for him; his blood surging urgently with every private triumph Zayn felt. Zayn’s body so relaxed that he didn’t notice the way Harry trailed his thumb down his vertebrae. Harry relished the heat of his skin even in the cool water, the way his muscles flexed beneath softly tanned skin, the furrow of his dark brows as he kept his eyes firmly shut.

 

Harry fights thoughts of Zayn in less clothing as he moves further and further into wanting.

 

Harry lets go before he loses control.

 

*

 

Zayn’s on his back the next time their eyes meet.   
  
Harry’s surprised to find anyone in the pool this late, but there he was, cigarette between his lips, drifting around like James Dean in swimming trunks.

  
“Oh, hi.” Harry stops abruptly. His eyes flicker between Zayn and the door, unsure of his next move.

 

“You can’t smoke in here.”  
  
Zayn looks bewildered before he plucks the cigarette from his mouth and waves it around “I’m not.” It’s unlit. He puts it behind his ear “It’s a stress habit, must have been more zoned out than I thought.”

 

He watches Zayn drift aimlessly around the pool for a while, head tilted back against the supporting float, his limbs relaxed and soft in the water; a stark contrast to the last time he’d seen him. Zayn has the sort of face that belongs everywhere, no matter what eventuality he always looks as though he belonged; as hot in coral shorts as he had been in jeans and a t-shirt.

 

Five minutes must have passed before he twigs that he’s being watched too; Zayn’s eyes are unwavering as he floats around, watching Harry with an interested smile. It’s disarming.

  
“I’m sorry, I can go.” He jerks a thumb towards the door.  
  
Zayn laughs throatily, head tipped back “You’re fine.” he toes the edge of the pool and goes gliding off in the opposite direction “I’m probably about done.”  
  


He doesn’t want him to leave and ruin the scene. That skin should only been seen here, with the reflected glow of the water painting it. Those limbs belonged to this moment. That jawline could cut through water, and those eyes could part it like the red sea. He shouldn’t be allowed to leave.

  
“Niall’s been sick so…” Harry clears his throat, but his nerves stick in his windpipe like mucus “I’m covering for him.”  
  
Zayn wrinkles his nose “I know.”  
  
Harry’s brows lifted, he’d been sure that Niall’s friend had been deliberately going out of his way to not run into him. Their first lesson hadn’t exactly ended on good terms.

 

Zayn smiles “I’m not avoiding you.”  
  
“But…” Harry tilts his head in confusion, remembering Zayn’s anger the last time they met “You were- I was sure that I’d...”  
  
Harry follows Zayn around to the opposite edge of the pool, wanting, needing to look him in the eye. He’d felt guilty about that lesson ever since Zayn had stormed from the pool; he should never have let him drift off. He shouldn’t have got distracted. He should have kept his hands on him, no matter how distracting that body, those eyes were to him. He still winces at the memory of Zayn flailing around in the deep end like a cat in a bathtub.

_Not his finest hour._

 

So Zayn’s reaction is strange, not at all what he’d thought it’d be. He’d been expecting the silent treatment at best. He must have read him wrong.  
  
Harry’s used to being able to read people but Zayn hasn't given that much away, fluctuating between sweet and sour at sickening pace. The changes are exhausting, and he’s only known him for a few days, and still he senses that he hasn’t seen all sides of this man.

 

Because Zayn has so many sides he's a circle.

 

“I’m unreasonable… when I’m scared.” Zayn admits and Harry feels a fresh wave of shame “But I don’t give up easy.” He drifts closer to the edge as Harry crouches down, dipping a leg in.  
  
He reaches Harry and his foot glances up his shin, his eyes flickering dark as he looked up at him.  
  


“I’ve been practising.”

 

Zayn is dangerous and he’s got Harry doing things that he wouldn’t normally do, like wanking off in the staff showers and not thinking before he speaks.  
  
“Let me come in you.” Come in with you. Harry closes his eyes and counts to ten. Zayn’s still floating below him when he peels them open  
  
“That’s a provocative offer.” Zayn smirks, but he pushes away.  
  


And so their second lesson is impromptu, Harry crouching down to pluck the cigarette from Zayn and roll it across the tiles and away from them.  
  
Zayn groans in protest, but he’s smiling, and it makes Harry want to lose his head.

 

“Seeing as I’ve got you right where I want you.” Harry grins with an overdramatic eyebrow flourish “Might as well teach you how to work those legs of yours.”  
  
Zayn raises a brow “And how exactly are you going to do that?”  
  
Harry ignores the leading innuendo and keeps his straight head on. Against Zayn, well, he thinks he deserves a medal of valour or something. “Get onto your front.”  
  
Zayn’s eyes flash with arousal but Harry makes a point of not noticing, keeping his arms folded until Zayn does as requested.  
  
Before the panic of the new position can sink in, Harry reaches down and grasps Zayn’s hands, pulling them and placing them onto the pool’s edge “Now hold on and kick… just like you’re kicking footballs under water.”   
  
But it's been years since Zayn has been engaged in organised sports and he’s out of practice. There’s spray, his messy legs splashing up more water than they should do, Harry shields his eyes.  
  
“A little further below the surface, just below it...” He pauses to assess him “Yeah, that’s it… you’re a fast learner.” He paces over to the crate with floats, and fetches out a board “I’d bet you’re ready to move on.”  
  
“I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.” Zayn eyes flicker with unease before he schools himself into something sexier, something darker.

 

“Onwards and upwards Zayn.” Harry passes him the float “Reckon if you can do that, you can do this.” He nods at the pool behind him, and when Zayn doesn’t move he smiles a little harder “We’ve got nothing but time to kill.”

 

Zayn doesn’t move straight away, hovering by the edge uncertainly, and taking deep steadying breaths.

 

“Do you need me to get in with you?” Harry sits a bit further over the edge, and it’s the threat that Zayn needs.

 

“No.” He snaps.  
  


That's the last thing he needs to help him concentrate; closer physical proximity. He takes another steadying breath, and all it takes is for Harry to start lowering his legs into the water.

  
And then he’s pushing off, a little bit splashy, but he floats all on his own.  
  
  


*

 

Zayn lights up his cigarette and the room.  
  


His lips purse and cradle the tan end, as he inhales, exhales, wearing his lungs away. Harry thinks he’d happily risk tumours to soak up this sight every waking moment. Send him to the grave buried with Zayn and a scattering of fag butts.  
  
He’s halfway to the filter before Harry reprimands him.

 

“Oh stop lurking, will you?” He stubs it out on the wall beside him, flicking his eyes to Harry and then to the ceiling in exasperation “I know, I know, I’m thinking of the children.” His whisper echoes.

 

“There’s a class of six year olds in the morning.”

 

And not for the first time, Harry wishes that he didn’t have to be socially responsible.

 

“So I’ll pick it up in a minute.” Zayn grins at him, running skinny fingers through his damp hair. His white teeth flirt with his full bottom lip, and Harry’s eyes linger there, thinking hard about that mouth as he kicks the burnt end to the far wall, that’d do.

 

“You’re pretty good you know?” He tells him "at swimming" he clarifies with a grin “A little bit explosive, but I think that’s just your style…”  
  
Zayn barks out a laugh and shoots Harry a smile that has him thinking the world has ended and he’s gone blind.  
  
“You don’t know how hard I’ve been working to perfect that.” Zayn smiles a little brighter.

 

  
*


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were sinking deeper.

He’s been fighting it for days, but every time he gets his hand around his dick Zayn thinks of Harry; the way he smiles when he doesn’t think Zayn’s looking; the way his hand twitches when he catches sight of Zayn’s naked torso; the way he rubs his lips together before he talks.  
  
This time he tried to pretend as though it wasn’t flashes of what Harry had said or did through his mind that got him so hard so quick, pushing to the background the smell of his aftershave as he gets closer to the edge. 

  
But minutes pass and nothing else will work, even Johnny Depp doesn’t help.

 

So he closes his eyes and he thinks about Harry; about the swell of his pink lips; about the stretch of his long arms; about the plane of his broad torso; about the muscles of his thighs and the promise of everything in between; about the way he drags the ‘a’ when he says his name.  
  
Zayn wants to make him scream it, cry out his name with Zayn’s hands in his hair, fucking his perfect face onto his dick, making him take it, making him pass out.   
  


He’d be just the type to tease, tracing veins with the tip of his tongue and looking up Zayn from beneath dark eyelashes. He’d lavish attention on the head first, opening his mouth just wide enough to suck at the tip, making Zayn whine and cry in impatience. He’d pierce Harry’s pretty back with his fingers wanting more and more until there was less than nothing left to give. Then he’d lift back off and pop a dimple with an unholier than thou smirk and a blackness in his eyes that Zayn wanted to fuck back to life. Then he’d sink the whole way down to the base.

  
  
The thought makes Zayn’s balls tighten. He’s pretty sure he’s sweating down into the mattress but he’s too desperate to care.

 

Harry’s lips around his dick would make a pretty fucking picture. Zayn growled again, his hips stuttering in anticipation. He flicked his hair from his eyes and cleared all remaining sanity from his mind; Harry taking him in deep and hard, his breaths coming out in hot heavy breaths that would hit the base of Zayn’s dick, and then swallow.

  
Zayn’d hold him down. But Harry’s tongue would hold him hostage.

  
_Harry. Harry. Harry. Harry._

 

His hand increases in speed, and he’s only numbly aware of the tapping of the headboard against the back wall as he gets closer and closer. He closes his eyes and lifts his hips from the mattress as his body begs for a release he’s been craving for hours.  
  
He can feel Harry’s hair between his fingers; feel his lips spread between his legs - _pink, swollen, protesting_ \- hear the moan and then the choke as he hits the back of his throat.

 

Zayn comes on an exhale, white pooling between his fingers and sticking them together in the guilty wake of his frenzy. He wipes away the mess on his sheets again.  
  


He's getting tired of doing laundry.

  
  


*

 

Zayn has trouble concentrating at work, even more so than usual. He stops paying attention to the real world, and lets his imagination run riot. Lets harry take over. Harry’s lips on his neck as he paints the skirting board, Harry’s crotch pressed tightly behind him as he varnishes a door. Harry’s hand skimming past his waistband as he paints the walls. He rolls emulsion over Mrs O'Brien's curtains, and that’s when his dad starts giving him shorter shifts.

 

His lessons with Harry become torture in a different way; a stupid kind of self-induced dehydration, he craved him all the time - his long legs, his hard jawline, the pathetic stubble on his top lip - he wanted to drink from Harry’s oasis. But not yet. _Not yet_. He didn’t want to serve this time, he wanted to parry.

 

So Zayn’s brain fought a battle on two fronts; against arousal and against fear. His determination to cover up both emotions impacted his progress for the better as he forced his body to do things in the water that he wouldn’t do otherwise.

 

Multitasking was a double edged sword: the effort of it made him forget his fear, but it also gave him migraines.

 

Harry certainly wasn’t helping matters, and Zayn noticed with amused dread that each time they met his shirts got tighter, and his shorts inched a little further up his thighs. Zayn in one of his wilder moments, considered wearing a chastity belt like a victorian virgin, until he realised that statistically, it would increase the risk of drowning.

 

Either way, Harry was probably going to kill him.

 

So when he starts arriving late to lessons Zayn praises all that is mighty - _Allah, Krishna, Zeus, Marijuana_ \- and uses the ten minutes wait as a buffer. It’s those few minutes that give him time to think he’s invincible again, they allow him to fool himself into thinking he is the master of his own body, let the water wash away his shame and his awkwardness, and he desperately replayed a reel of disgust in his mind to keep himself in check.

 

Because Zayn is desperate, and doesn't think he can hold a conversation with Harry. Not anymore. Not now that he’s seen the unfulfilled potential there; Harry’s lips stretched around his dick is burnt on the inside of his eyelids; every blink taunted Zayn with what was just beyond his reach, what he didn’t know just quite yet. And so Zayn kicks harder against the water to turn things around because Harry’s not a person to Zayn in those moments, he’s a disembodied pair of lips.

 

But as it turned out, water does not get rid of erections.

 

Zayn’s managed sixth widths of the pool with the float when Harry creeps in.

 

"You're really starting to develop a technique Zayn."

 

It’s only by pure chance that Zayn manages to finish his stretch without capsizing. He pulls up at the edge, and pressed the entire front of his body to the wall. He knows that his rosy cheeks give him away.

 

And the sass slips out unintentionally "I think it helps being alone."

 

Harry holds his up in mock surrender "So not a voyeur then?" He jokes "We’ll get you used to that..." He trails off, rocking backwards on the balls of his feet, meeting Zayn’s eyes with his own dark ones.  

 

The blood flow between Zayn’s legs surges underwater.

 

Harry clears his throat "No but really, I'm legally required by law to be here. In case of drowning and stuff."

 

Zayn purses his lips "To aid the drowning process?" He lets the heat rise in Harry's cheeks, takes pride in it "Where were you anyway?"

 

"I had class."

 

Zayn looks around at the empty pool in confusion.

 

"No, I'm _taking_ classes." Harry corrects.

 

Zayn's head whips around to meet his eye, interest piqued. He leans forward and props his chin on his folded arms at the poolside.

 

He hadn’t even considered Harry having a life outside the leisure center, though he realised now just how juvenile that was. Suddenly he wants to know more about swim teacher Harry, what exactly did he do out of opening hours, and did he always smell of chlorine?

 

"I'm training to be a teacher."

 

Of course he is.

  
  
Zayn recalls the first time he saw Harry; well and truly in over his head amongst a group of pre-teens, he hadn’t had control of them for a second, and he wondered how someone could be so naive. He had about as much chance of keeping control in a classroom as Zayn did of turning straight overnight.

 

"Younger kids right?" But Zayn predicts that even six year olds would run circles around him.

 

"Why?"

 

Zayn thinks of the chaos again "The older ones would have you wrapped around their fingers…” Through his early teenage years Zayn had been a bit of a trouble maker, he would’ve ruined teachers like him “I would've had you wrapped around mine."

 

Harry bites his lip, and mutters something under his breath that Zayn catches as "I'd love to be..." Then he clears his throat for what must have been the fifth time in as many minutes “I’m actually a pretty good disciplinarian when I want to be.” He paused to shoot Zayn a look “When the situation calls for it.”

 

There’s a heavy pause that closes in around Zayn’s throat as his pulse recenters to his groin. He could almost hear the thrum of his blood in the air as it rushed down, throbbing bass notes echoed around the room; the acoustics were good in there. He pressed his front harder against the tiles, forcing his eyes to examine his nail beds and replays his defensive reel: broken arms, greenhouses, grannies in sagging stockings.

  
Its milliseconds but it feels like a century.  
  


They make eye contact and all his good work is blown to pieces.

 

Harry’s mouth moves in slow motion, and Zayn has to work like a translator to reconnect the vowels to the lethargic syllables. "So I thought we could try some swimming in your back today?"

_Oh fuck no._ His penis was not ready for that sort of exposure. He wills away his arousal in frenzied mental prayer.

 

"Do you want me to come in with you?"

 

Zayn pales at the thought of Harry getting in beside him and getting a closer look. Normally, in a club, he’d flaunt it, grinding against arses with a viguor that often lead to fucking in alleyways and toilet cubicles. But that tactic doesn’t seem appropriate in this setting.

 

"No!"

 

"Okay." Harry’s eyes widen.

 

Zayn takes his time, thinks of bad things again; turnips, syphilis, that really nasty veruca his nan had on her big toe, and it works but just knowing Harry's near keeps him on the verge. He closes his eyes as he stepped away from the wall.

 

"Now I want you to float on your back, but this time raise your hands above your head."

 

He does as she’s told, avoiding Harry's eye but he feels the heat of them on him. He's seen.

 

"Hold the float out above you on the surface of the water, pointing towards the opposite edge... Good. Now gently kick your legs like you do on your front..."

 

Zayn starts to move and it's disconcerting not being able to see where he’s going, he doesn’t like it.

 

"Don't turn your head! It's fine, you'll float just fine. You won't crash into the wall that's why the float is there..."

 

Zayn’s impatient with the pace of things; it takes a lot more time to maneuver on his back.

 

Harry fades into view shortly before he bumps into the wall. "You're still bringing your feet up too high above the water, they need to tickle the surface yeah?" He pauses to make a tickling action with his fingers "just play with the water, don't give too much away. Flirt. Okay?"

 

"Okay."

 

"Meet you at the other side."

 

Zayn focuses on the movement of his feet, kicking everything else right out of his head because there's no room for it. When he meets Harry again he barely even pauses before he turns and goes back for another.

 

Harry breaks into a wide grin "That was practically breaking the speed limit mate."

 

Zayn shakes his head, propping himself up on elbows as he hangs on the side.

 

"You're right, sorry, teacher mode." Harry beams“You want me to show you the different strokes?”   
  


Harry crouches down on the side, knees over toes wobbling as he takes Zayn’s arm and manipulates it gently; showing him the motions of breaststroke. Zayn isn't paying attention to anything other than the way Harry’s fingers so easily circled his wrist, thinking about what else they could circle instead. Harry could teach him all he liked about that kind of action.

 

When Harry releases his arm and expects him to continue Zayn is clueless. Luckily for him, his arm acted upon its flesh memory, echoing the motion with less enthusiasm now he was independent. He keeps his eyes locked on Harry the whole time; storing away every flicker of a reaction for later inspiration.

 

At this rate he’d never make it out his bedroom.

 

Harry meets his eyes and it’s a thousand pins to Zayn’s lungs; he takes care to breathe in case he ruptures the tissue. But Harry’s a distraction, and he just might not give a damn.

 

Zayn liked brown eyes, he was used to them; he knew how to interpret the hues of chestnut, hazelnut, almond, better than he knew himself. But this is uncharted, and Harry’s green eyes were an independent state: they were unknown territory; unexplored and lawless; undefinable; kingdoms would crumble under their shadow.  
  


Zayn begins to speak before he has time to censor himself "I like your eyes, they're..."

 

"I know, they're green." Harry interrupted "I've heard it all before."

 

"No they're…” He can visualise the name behind his eyes “ _oxide of chromium_."

 

Harry's breath catches. Zayn finds himself reaching up to cup his face with his wet palm, and Harry leans into it.

 

They make eye contact and it’s searing, Zayn forgets how to breathe. His lungs stop and he doesn't know how to start again, and it's exactly the opposite of riding a bike because he has no idea. He'll have to relearn how to operate them from scratch. His lungs have gone on protest and Harry’s starting a riot in his eyes..

 

Because Zayn’s never had any idea about anything, until now, until this.

 

His head swims, arms twitch, eyes flicker desperately but clarity evades him. The tension between them is everything. The boy with the pink cheeks and the eyes like spring time is it. So Zayn does what every inch of his person screamed at him to do, and he kisses him.

 

It's tentative, a brush of a lips that screams of an innocence that neither of them had tasted for years. Again and they’re both pressing harder, a snick of stubble against chlorinated skin makes their mouth to mouth all the sweeter, Zayn’s fingers slipping from the tiles and working determined paths into the wispy hair at the base of Harry’s skull.

 

Zayn closes his eyes and Harry’s breathing heavies; he puffs out a rhythm they both work to, mouths hot and insistent. Waterlogged fingers ease the hair tie from Harry’s head and flick it away, wet fingers tugging and trickling lukewarm water against skin.  
  
Harry shivers as it makes tracks down the back of his neck.  
  


Zayn pulls dark curls between eager fingers, smirking into Harry’s soft moans. He presses onto the balls of his feet below water as he determines to work more and more out of him. Teeth pierce Zayns bottom lip make him howl out in surprise, and he’s lost the upper hand. Shared breaths, and shared space; he’d concede defeat without question.

 

Because when Harry’s tongue flickers against his and Zayn wants to set himself on fire.  
  


So he lets Harry take control, melting against his mouth, pressing his dick so hard against the pool he's seeing stars.

  
Its hot and desperate, Zayn’s moving so enthusiastically against the tiles that he’s certain that with every little thrust he’s chipping away at the grouting like a pick axe. All he wants is for Harry to stop fooling around and give him a good groping. Better yet, pull him out of the pool, and pull off his shorts and wrap those lips right where Zayn’s dreamed them. Harry pulls away with a start, and throws them both off balance.

  
“ _Fuck._ ” Zayn sighs.

 

Harry’s eyes are wide - almost black - with heat, they flicker over Zayn’s head and torso. Zayn bites his already swollen bottom lip, noticing the bulge in Harry’s shorts too. Fuck.

  
Harry pulls him back in.

 

He laughs into the next kiss, mouth assured and insistent. It jarred, and their teeth clashed. But Zayn’s tectonic plates shift, erupting volcanoes under his skin and sending red hot lava pumping from his arteries.

 

Their tongues are too familiar too quick; Harry working Zayn up to a state he’d almost forgotten. He tugs against Harry’s hair, making him stumble down onto his knees, and roughs calloused fingers across his stubble. Zayn flicks his tongue tirelessly against the inside of Harry’s mouth, all those nights of wanting, imagining, spilling out into this. He wants to win, he wants to watch Harry fall apart. They duel for dominance.

  
Zayn’s lungs are squealing for relief as minutes pass. He's moments away from passing out before Harry finally lets him go, raising his hands above his head in a surrender.

 

“Wait…” Harry pulls back to look at him properly “oxide of chromium, that sounds like a paint colour?”

  
“Windsor and Newton.”  
  
Harry touched his fingers to his red, lip swollen mouth, eyelashes fluttering.

 

And Zayn has to leave before he does something thoroughly indecent.

 

*

 

He can't face another lesson; its raw, and exposing, and Zayn doesn't like being vulnerable or the centre of attention - and Harry makes him both.

  
So Zayn ditches for the pub.

  
He pictures Harry waiting poolside, giving Zayn ten minutes, and then twenty. The bright smile he scaffolds onto his face to conceal his disappointment sagging slightly as he finally tracks from the building. When it comes to it, Zayn can’t stomach the beer he buys; it sits in front of him, reflecting its amber light morosely across the table.

 

So maybe he felt a little bad about standing Harry up - a little more so once Niall thumped him in the arm for it.

  
“But I don’t understand.” Niall fixes him with a searching stare “If you’re getting better, then why stop? It’s counter intuitive.”

  
“Counter productive.” 

  
Niall flips him the finger. “Fuck you.” He takes a long swig of his pint, and then really lets rip “It’s pussying around, that’s what it is. Just because he gives you a stiffy each time you see him, doesn’t mean you have to leave the guy hanging.”

  
Zayn has the decency to blush “ _I do not_.”

  
Niall rolls his eyes “You’re just a fucking pussy Malik.” He gulps down another mouthful “Leaving Harry to wank himself off in the showers alone, _poor twat_.”

  
Zayn pretends that the image doesn’t make him want to jack off under the table but Niall spies him shift.

 

“Fucking _oxide of chromium_ Malik. And you’re telling me you don’t want to stick your dick in him?” He swipes Zayn’s beer for good measure.

  
“Hey!” Zayn protests, but it’s a weak one, and he’s mostly surprised that Niall and Harry’s interactions extend beyond exchanging dick jokes in the staff room.

  
“Or you want his dick in your arse, what do I know?” He shrugs, wiping foam from his top lip, and sending the pint glass wobbling. "Fuck if I know the logistics of bumming..." He shakes a weary head.

 

Zayn repeats the same old shpiel he’s been reciting for hours. “I’ve just learnt enough. I can float now, so at least I don’t die if I get caught up in a titanic type situation.”

 

Unlikely, as Sheffield was about as landlocked as you could get in the UK. The closest he’d come to drowning around these parts was Harry.  
  
He pressed a palm to his fly beneath the table.

  
Niall’s eyes flash with victory when they catch him “You can't fool me mate.” he rolls his eyes “and your grasp of the Titanic plot is wildly off piste.”

  
It's Zayn's turn to roll his eyes now “Get me a pint will you.”

  
Niall downs the rest of his pilfered glass and stretches up and out of his seat. He fixes Zayn with a mischievous look before he turns towards the bar “I’ll be right over there.” 

  
As if Zayn is about to finger himself against the synthetic leather cushions.

  
Not today.

 

Zayn watches with amusement as Niall attempted to flirt with the barmaid, a stony faced asian girl with a nose piercing that screamed death metal fetish.

 

It was Niall's bad habit; Zayn had smoking, niall had shitty pick up lines. He tried the same tricks every time they came; cracking jokes that even Zayn’s dad would be embarrassed to claim. In the end, Zayn knows that Niall would get his way, he usually did with most things, but until then he wouldn’t let up; Niall nurses a stubborn perseverance that Zayn had learnt to find endearing.

 

He smirks to himself as Niall leans over the bar too eagerly, trying to make eye contact. The barmaid is working apparently obliviously at the opposite end, except she keeps looking Nialls way when he's not staring. Once again Zayn wonders just how aloof she really is.

 

Harry turns up before Niall can charm a free pint.

 

And while Zayn notices him straight away - floppy dark hair framing a winter reddened face- he takes a while to spot him. He casts his eyes around the crowded room before settling on Zayn’s table.

 

The sudden eye contact is like a spotlight on him, and he shrinks further into his corner instinctively. But as Harry swallows heavy and heads his way Zayn changes his mind; sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders.

 

“Hi.”  
  
“Hey.”

 

His throat is dry, he clears it and reaches for a beer that doesn’t exist, so turns the motion into a stretch. Harry pretends not to notice allowing endearment to colour his dimpled cheeks. His eyes following the shadow of Zayn’s adams apple as he swallows his butterflies.  
  
Zayn is willing him to do something, anything other than observe, sit or walk away. But Harry stays still, arms dangling loosely by his sides, incisors worrying his bottom lip.  
  
“Can I get you a drink?”

 

Zayn looks up at Harry from beneath startled lashes. No word about missing class. No reprimand. No concern. Zayn’s so startled by his disappointment that he forgets that it’s not cool to keep staring.  
  
“Niall.” He nods towards the bar where Niall is finally being served, cracking jokes that fall flat.  
  
Harry cranes around and nods “Is that him finally cracking Cynthia’s shell?”   
  
Niall leaves his hand on the girl’s for slightly too long as he hands over his money, and she looks bored as ever.  
  
Zayn laughs, eyes crinkling “I think he’s still playing the long game…” He shifted in the booth to make room for Harry, hoping that he’d pick up on his non verbal signal. But Harry makes him sweat, avoiding Zayn with hard eyes as he slides into the seat opposite.

 

“I’ve always seen him as more of a sprinter.” Harry’s shoulders relax as he leans into the seat behind him, he drapes his long arms over the table “but he’s been mooning over her for months, so…”  
  


Harry glances around the room searching for a summary line but falling flat. He meets Zayn’s eye again and his eyes jump, a momentary glance at the chink in his defences. Zayn unfolds his arms in an unconscious effort to level himself.

  
He nods sagely “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  
  
Harry holds his eye for a long time after that. Zayn hadn’t meant it to have a hidden message, but everything he did around Harry seemed to end up that way; encoded with a little bit more of his secret self. It’s uncharacteristically Zayn.  
  
Harry’s hand opens on the table, palm outstretched like a lotus, and Zayn doesn’t need to think too hard to read that signal. His fingers inch across the table to the staccato rhythm in his chest, powered forwards by the itch to discover and conquer Harry with his hands alone.

  
“Think the woman’s going to kill me one day.”

  
Zayn’s arm snaps back to his side as Niall slides back into the booth beside Harry, three pints placed onto the table with expert ease. Zayn shrugs back into nonchalance with an unaffected air, but Niall’s smirk tells him that he’d seen everything.

  
“Why so tense Malik?” Niall jokes “At ease soldier!” He salutes.

  
Zayn’s shoulders tighten, but he rolls his eyes “Wanker.”  
  
Harry’s expression is steely and unavoidable, at some point in the seconds that passed since Zayn had last looked his way, he had transitioned from polite interest into something darker, hungrier, and Zayn’s stripped bare in the middle of the room.

  
Niall thumps Harry on the arm “Good to see you Haz mate. Here.” He lifts a pint and offers it to him “ _You_ can have Zayn’s.”

  
Harry unclenches his fist to take the glass from him, but his hand slips before he can get a real hold on it, and half the beer tips out and onto the table in front of him.

 

Harry’s upper hand slides away again.   
  
Niall barks out a laugh, looking around checking to see if he has the right audience. Cynthia otherwise engaged, cleaning glasses behind the bar.

 

“Here, let me go nab a cloth.” Niall stretches up to standing once more, raking fingers through his hair as he made his way back over.   
  
Cynthia holds a cloth to him without a word.  
  


Harry’s blushing into his lap,  Zayn spares him the embarrassment of following his movements too intently, instead only glancing his way every other second. The moments in between virtually counted down bein his head. He focuses on the bar by means of distraction as Niall busies himself cleaning up the mess in front of him.

 

His eye is caught by Cynthia, who is watching Niall apparently against every grain of her being; with a tenseness to her muscles all over and a clenched jaw as he bends and stretches over the table. She must feel Zayn’s eyes on her because suddenly they’re watching each other, she raises a manicured hand and presses her finger to her lips.

 

“Here.” Zayn slides his undrunk pint towards Harry and takes Harry’s half empty glass for his own. He tilts the glass to his lip and takes a leisurely pull of the liquid.

  
He’s the centre of Harry’s attention as he finishes the glass. Unoccupied the tension is unbearable, but Harry can’t look away and neither can he.   
  
But it’s Harry’s fingers that make Zayn shift in his seat; still covered in beer and dripping lazily onto the table in front of him. He takes one into his mouth without thinking. The next mouthful is intentional; tongue flicking out first to take in his middle finger, swirling around until it reaches the join before his lips form a tight circle. Harry’s cheeks go concave as he sucks long and hard. Every finger is sweet torture, but Zayn can’t stand the idea of it stopping. He wants more. He wants to lunge across the table and put those fingers to better use. Zayn wants to tear down Harry’s boxers just enough for him to get closer. Close enough in the crowded pub. He could fuck him more than once.

  
Zayn presses his thighs together.

  
Next Harry starts toying with the rim of the glass; dipping his index finger into the beer and tracing the rim slowly. He stares at Zayn beneath dark lashes. He holds that gaze with authority, eyes dancing slowly with a dark intention, holding his eyes captive and then slowly, deliberately, biting down hard on his bottom lip. 

  
Zayn lunges to his feet, clearing his throat “I’m going for a smoke.”  
  
His voice breaks as he scrambles to get out, pushing past throngs of people with an urgency that was so very alien to his normal demeanor. Harry’s influence.

 

Zayn crashes into the alleyway alongside the pub with less ease than he would normally, his limbs still heavy with the beer and with the distraction of Harry. _**Fuck**._ _Those lips_.  He’ll die if he didn’t get hand on himself soon. He presses the palm against the bulge of his zip hard, but he doesn’t go any further than that. He blinks rapidly to clear his head but it only makes it worse, pink stretched lips tattooed on his retinas and flashing bold and desperate with every flutter.

 

_Shit._ He won’t be that guy. The one wanking in an alleyway because he can’t keep a hold of his fucking shit.  
  
He tears at his pockets for his cigarettes.

 

When he can’t find them he presses his head against the wall and closes his eyes with a desperate moan.

 

“Looking for these?”

_Zayn can’t catch a fucking break._

  
Harry’s wearing a leather jacket that makes Zayn want to tear out his own lungs; the leather stark against his pale skin and giving him an edge that screams out at a higher pitch. If he comes any closer Zayn’s going to explode. He’s going to go off like Vesuvius and they’ll be discovered in 3000 years, figures moulded of ash with their trousers round their ankles.  
  
Harry steps closer, holding out the pack with an outstretched arm. And not for the first time Zayn feels like an exhibit in the zoo, but he relished in it, he wants closer inspection, he wants thorough research, he wants Harry to turn him inside out learning every aspect of his anatomy. He wants too much.

_So he takes all he can get. And he wants everything._   
  


Harry stumbles as he gives into the pull and slams into Zayn. Their bodies are so close that there’s barely any room for independent breath. But that’s okay, mouth to mouth will do.

 

They do battle; tongues lancing and riposting, teeth jarring, lips pushing, hands holding hostage. It’s a graceful fight, and neither can get enough.

  
Zayn releases him and Harry hits him on the shoulder half heartedly.

 

“Fucking dick.”

  
Zayn eats the bitter words with laps of his tongue against Harry’s jugular, grinding their hips together fiercely until everything goes white. Harry tugs at the hemline of Zayn’s tee, slipping a cold palm against his abs with a sigh the other echoed.   
  
Zayn kisses him again with a growl, slowing things down with his tongue and his pelvis parallels the motion, making Harry whine in frustration. Zayn’s smirks against his lips.

  
The leather feels cold in his hands, he grasps it tighter, exerting all the force he can with his back against the wall. Harry’s making little noises in his mouth, and Zayn teases them louder and louder with his fingers at the back of his head. They’re having conversations, silent and distracted. He lets his hips do the talking for him.

 

Harry pulls his mouth away with a gasp, trailing hot lips along Zayn’s jaw, and down until he can sink his teeth into the base of his neck. It sends shockwaves down Zayn’s spine and he yanks Harry closer with one hand, brushing the other down his chest and tweaking his nipple through the plaid.

 

They grind against each other like they have something to prove.

 

Zayn just about loses his mind when Harry pops the button of his jeans and slips his hand into his underwear. The pressure of their bodies makes the presence of his palm all the more intense. But then it’s too tight, and he has to press his hips harder against Harry to allow him the space to drag the material down.   
  
His hand is bliss, cold against his hot skin, curled around his cock like it belongs there. Zayn keens high in the back of his throat, but he has no time to be embarrassed, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud as he lets himself go to the pleasure of it.

  
“Want to suck you.” Harry breathes, and he inches Zayn’s underwear lower until it’s around his knees.

  
“ _Fuck._ ” Zayn thrusts harder into his hand, warring with his morality in the back of his mind “Shit. _Not here_.”  
  
Harry sinks to his knees anyway, pressing his mouth to Zayn’s thigh and puffing wet kisses to the downy skin. He continues to move his hand up and down, looking up at Zayn from beneath heavy lids.  
  
It builds. Zayn’s mind is disconnected from every other part of him, and it takes all he has not to let go. Harry would look so good on his knees, and covered in his come.

  
“Fucking. _Ahhhh_.” Zayn thrusts harder as Harry moves lower, mouth trailing temptation, pausing at the skin high at the very beginning of his thigh “Feels so good.”   
  
He feels his underwear pooling around his ankles before Harry presses his legs apart, nudging his head further in and closer to Zayns balls, turning at the last minute to the very top of his inner thigh and sucking a bruise into his skin.

 

Zayn closes his eyes to his pride, he left his dignity back when they met. 

  
“Wanna fuck your mouth.”

_Shit._

 

Harry looks up at him, biting his lip in triumph.

  
“Oh?” He hovers, and he must know what his breath on his shaft is doing to him.   
  
Their wordless power plays are exhausting.

  
“Yeah, shit Harry.” Zayn tried to get a hand on himself but Harry slaps it away. Zayn groans deep in his throat “Wanna stretch your lips.”

  
Harry leans forward just enough to brush his lips against the head, and it’st too much.

  
Zayn wants to cry. He squeezes his eyes shut. Tight. He tangles his fist in Harry’s long hair and tugged desperately. Harry watches him for a good while, smirking. Tease. Then just as Zayn opened his eyes, Harry takes his head between his lips.

  
Zayn moans and thrusts forward.

 

He doesn’t care that they’re in public. He doesn’t care that he’s being loud. He doesn’t care that they could - _would_ \- get arrested for this.  
  
Harry’s mouth is everything.

 

For another man falling in deep would be the perfect time for poetry, but he was shit at rhyming and better at fucking that mouth.  
  


Tight, so tight, and warm, and too wet to be considered expert, but fuck, Zayn couldn’t fault it. Harry groaned loudly, shifting his hips against nothing as Zayn breached the back of his throat, and the fluttering of Harry’s throat around his dick is like a steamroller through his self control.

 

Short, shallow strokes replace the longer ones and the pace alert Harry to Zayn’s imminent climax, and he responds in kind, moaning again around him, reaching a hand between Zayn’s legs to press his palm to his balls.

  
Zayn comes loudly; his wails ricocheting against walls as he slumps down. He cards his hand through Harry’s hair, pulling him up beside him.

  
“ _Fuck_ , Styles.” He pants against Harry's cheek “That has to be the dirtiest thing I’ve done in a long time.”

  
Harry presses lips into his neck sloppily “Well, you haven’t lived.” He takes Zayn’s hand in his, and pulls it to his crotch. He sucks in air as Zayn's hand works into his boxers, taking him in his palm “And I intend to help you live your life to the fullest.”

  
*

  
Zayn should have left half an hour ago; the waters getting cold and he’s sure that his skin has aged a few decades, but he can’t make himself leave.

 

Harry has the type of laugh that changes subjects with ease. The equivalent of the sun breaking through a bank of grey clouds and erasing any lingering gloom.

 

And he’s addictive like sugar; cracking awful one liners and tripping over his shadow. Harry makes enemies with gravity with every step he takes.

 

But it’s the way Harry watches him that Zayn him magnetised; atoms all up in the air, nonsensical stuff that him stumbling in water. And perhaps Harry presses kisses to Zayn's mouth to encourage him to work harder, but it backfires each time. Despite Zayn’s best efforts, he probably looks about as sexy as a wet dog.  
  
Maybe Harry was vindictive enough to do it all on purpose.  
  
Zayn doesn't care. Racing from poolside to poolside to lean into another soulbreaking kiss; messy mouths, chlorine wet face and laughing eyes.

 

“You’re getting really good now.”

  
“Thanks.” He blinks water from his lashes as he pulls back “I think I’m starting to get the hang of the arms thing.” He shrugs “Still fucking weird though.”

 

“I meant at kissing.” Harry laughs.

  
Zayn rolls his eyes “You’re lucky I like you, I don’t normally stand for dad jokes.”

  
“My jokes are still better than your swimming.”

  
“Fuck you.” Zayn grins, pulling his torso further out of the water with his arms and bumping his forehead against Harry’s.   
  
Harry catches his lips again, pushing his tongue into his mouth and asserting his dominance. Zayn’s arms are shaking when he lowers himself back down.

  
Harry bites his lip “I wouldn’t mind.”  
  
They hold eyes for a long time, and Zayn is moments away from scrambling out and blowing Harry on the poolside when he speaks.

  
“We should get going, it’s getting late, and I should probably lock up... I need to stop by the library.” Harry pouts prettily at him.  
  
Zayn gets out using the ladder mostly because he doesn't trust his arms to hold his own body weight right now, and while Harry is fairly open to clumsiness, Zayn knew there was a line that would be crossed into embarrassment that would take even a pity hand job out of the question.

  
Bellyflopping out of the water like a beached whale was not in the realms of sexy.  
  


Harry’s waiting for him by the changing rooms as he walks over, shoulders open and legs crossed at the ankle where he leans inviting Zayn’s eye with an ease that unsettles his stomach. He wants to paw at his stupid polo shirt, tear it off and lick the tattoos from his chest like an eraser. God knows Harry's crotch would look a whole lot better in those shorts, with Zayn's wet body pressed up against him.

 

And Zayn should probably say something before they defile this side of the pool as well.

 

“They trust you to lock up?”

 

Harry laughs loud, placing his hand in the small of his back and guiding Zayn through the door. “I’m very responsible.”

 

And he couldn’t have told a bigger lie if he’d tried.

  
  
They stop at the showers and Harry leans in, breath fanning over Zayn's cheeks as he gets nearer and nearer. Zayn’s so ready, he presses his mouth into a pout and holds his breath. He stumbles back into the wall, but Harry pulls away with a smirk, pressing Zayn’s towel into his damp skin “I’ll see you in a few.”

  
Then he turns and heads in the opposite direction.

 

Bastard.

 

Zayn’s keyed up in the showers, slipping off his trunks and kicking them under the curtain from beneath the freezing water. He thinks of nothing but Harry, but he doesn’t get a hand around himself, ignoring his erection in favour of soaping his arms. Every day he sees him, Harry becomes expert in a new form of torture.

 

He’s shivering when he shuts the water off, wrapping a towel around his waist and pressing his head against the tiles to calm himself down.

 

Harry’s right in front of him when he draws back the curtain. 

  
Zayn’s slammed against the tiles with a ferocity that he’d been longing for, breaths quickening as Harry sinks to his knees again and he can’t think straight. He loses the hold on his towel but neither of them care when it drops to the floor.

 

Harry’s got his hand around him fast and Zayn’s mind is occupied territory, conquered by boys with curly hair and dark lashes and mouths that were capable of everything. He pulls his hand back slowly, increasing the pressure as he got closer to the tip, watching the flickering vein in Zayn’s neck as he fought himself for restraint.   
  


Harry turns his face, leans in, ghosting over Zayn’s cock but then swerving at the last minute, sucking a dark bruise into Zayn’s thigh. Zayn groans out, hands feasting in Harry’s hair, tugging desperately for more. Pleading for everything. He wants to cover him. He wants to be the designer that he wears. His thrusts push his dick through Harry’s fist harder and faster than he thought possible, adrenaline flowing to his hips and making him superhuman.

_Superdick._

 

Harry bites into soft skin, and Zayn wails, hips stuttering faster and faster and he’s not sure if he’ll come now, or later, but he can’t stop. Harry paints his thighs with his teeth and his tongue, teasing the base of him with his lips is enough to push Zayn to the edge.   
  


And he wants to punish him for making him crazy, but he doesn’t want this to end. Doesn’t want to imagine a moment where Harry isn’t on his knees for him. The pressure is perfect, keeping Zayn desperate, powering him up and up until he can see the end happening behind his screwed up eyelids. Zayn’s hips slow and his breathing peaks.

  
He pulls back Harry’s head so he veil his face in white.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you x


	3. Three

“That’s a birds nest.” Zayn looks down at the seat, stating the obvious. Harry shoots him an indulgent smile as he straps himself in.

  
“Yep.” He grins, leaning over to remove it, and balancing it on his lap instead.

  
“What happened to the bird?” Zayn glances around the car expectantly “You nursing it at home?” In the short time they’ve known each other, it strikes him as a very Harry thing to do.   
  


“Nope.” Harry shifts into reverse and backs out the space “It died.”  
  
Zayn sits in silence for a while, partially mourning the bird, but mostly trying to work out what on earth had possessed Harry to keep a birds nest in his car.  
  


But Harry puts him out of his misery “I’m gonna put it on my mantlepiece, I need something circular.”

 

Zayn’s laugh is a rupture to his throat. He clears it, and fixes Harry with a concerned look “ _Babe_ , I’m pretty sure this falls well beyond the realms of interior design.”  
  


He’s certainly more used to magnolia paint and chintz curtains in his day job.

  
“Oh do you know something about the subject?” Harry teases, making a turn towards the campus “Are you something of an _expert_ Zayn?”

  
Zayn ignores him. 

  
“I’m sorry.” Harry smiles cautiously, and it’s new, this tentativeness...

  
Zayn shrugs, watching buildings pass from the window, each more grey than the last. And if there were ever a visual for why Zayn doesn’t like studying, this would be it.

 

“Where did you find it?”

 

“In some woods.”

  
Zayn bites back another laugh. The image of Harry foraging in a forest for decorative items is too much to bear.

 

“What else did you get?” Zayn gives in to another laugh, letting it pull him a little further “tree bark for coasters? flowers to press?”

 

“Oh so you're making fun of me now?” Harry drives into a parking space with ease “Very nice Zayn, very nice.” He puts on the handbrake “Considering I’ve just sucked you off nicely in the lads bogs.”

 

Zayn ponders the definition of a _‘nice blow job’_ , as he catches his breath.

 

He comes to a dead halt as he leans forward and pulls on the handle in front of him. Harry’s glove compartment is full of pine cones, and Zayn’s eyes ache with laughter.

 

*

 

Zayn is an armchair academic. He likes intelligent conversation about novels and politics. He could debate for hours the motifs used in Ulysses. Probably could’ve done something with that if he’d been that way inclined. But he hates tests, and he hates studying.

 

Actually being in a library is a bit of an out of body experience for him.

 

The tables of students crouched over laptops set his teeth on edge, and he picks up the pace, falling into step with Harry easily.

 

“Remind me why we’re here again?”

 

“I’ve reserved some books.” Harry smiles when Zayn looks at him blankly “For my assignment, tomorrow.”

  
“Right.” Zayn nods absently, peering at the shelves as they pass. 

  
Harry pulls him to a stop with a press of his palm to the crook of his elbow. “You can go wander around if you like.” He laughs “Just don’t let anyone see you, it’s sort of frowned upon for non students to come in here.”

  
  


So Zayn goes roaming, and he finds himself where he always finds himself, amongst the classic literature. Because Zayn can hear the siren call of Hardy from miles away, and he craves good plots as much as he craves nicotine in the mornings. He slinks down an avenue and presses tentative fingertips along faded spines as he moves, being a painter decorator doesn’t exactly lend itself to copious reading, so he’s soaking up the symphony of culture while he can.

 

He makes a face as he passes the shelves of Dickens - _Great Expectations_ fell short of the mark, three hours of his life that he’d never get back - and moved on. The battered black spine of The Birds caught his eye and a shiver run down his spine, recalling memories of dark winter walks and treacherous beach paths, the fear Du Mauriers words struck in him.

 

“That’s a good one!”

 

The Ishiguro Zayn’d just picked up fell to the floor.

 

Harry smiles sheepishly as he draws up in front of him.

 

“Sorry.” he bites his lip “I just love the idea of the whole donor thing… how we’re just left to work it all out on our own, it made me feel sort of clever when I did. And then the whole tragic love story side of it with Kathy…” Harry bends down to pick up the copy of _Never Let Me Go_.

 

Zayn is so distracted by Harry on his knees in front of him that he forgets to be impressed by his literary knowledge. Honestly, Zayn’s so gone for boys who know the difference between a simile and a metaphor, especially when said boys have dimples and dark hair perfect for fisting.

 

Its probably the most inappropriate place he’d ever gotten an erection.

 

Thinking about pressing Harry against the shelves, pulling his underwear down just far enough to get to him properly...

 

“I’m sorry, you have read it?” Harry furrows his brow.

 

Zayn nods.

 

Its not until he has Harry’s body lodged between his own and the racking that he realises his tongue is in Harry’s mouth. But he runs with it, fisting the hem of his stupid uniform polo and twisting it up, fevered flesh matching the heat of Harry’s mouth on his. He wants him too much.

 

“ _Zayn_.” Harry’s voice is dazed as he pushes back.

 

Zayn ducked his head back down, pressing lips under Harry’s jaw and grinding his crotch in slow circles against him. Harry keens, pressing palms to the small of Zayn’s back and encouraging him forwards.

 

“Fuck.” Zayn pants “Want to fuck you.”

 

Harry moans, nodding again as he gets more and more out of breath, hips thrusting softly back on their own accord, he fixes Zayn with a look “Can't do it here though…”

 

His first and only thought is why the hell not.

 

“Yours then.”

 

Zayn doesn’t wait for Harry’s agreement before he drags him out, pausing for a moment Harry scrambles to pick up the textbooks that had apparently dropped to their feet.

 

The drive to Harry’s is an expedition, with every red light they hit feeling like a personal insult. Zayn snarls from between gritted teeth, hand gripping tighter on harrys slender thigh every time they come to a standstill, causing him to stall more than one occasion.

 

 

First Harry can’t find his keys - scrambling hands coming up empty as Zayn wraps his arms around him from behind - it takes all zayns concentration not to just blow him in the hallway. But he opens it, tumbling through backwards as Zayn steers them blindly inside; fevered lips, frantic hips, fervent fingers.

 

Harrys shirt is off before they cross the threshold, Zayn’s follows shortly after.

 

Zayn is alert enough to take in plant after plant, the light in the room tinted green with foliage. Snatching his body away to grunt " _Fuck_ , do you live in a greenhouse?"

 

Harry keens as Zayn grinds the zip of his jeans against him... "I like to watch things grow."

 

So Zayn forgets how to function, he thinks he's about to come in his pants like a preteen. Instead, he trips over a cactus.   
  


Harry lands on top of him - elbows over arse - and he's heavier than he looks; knocking the wind out of Zayn’s lungs and biting his bottom lip with perfect teeth. Zayn should be turned off, angry even but he isn't. Because Harry shoots him a sheepish grin, cheeks stained red, and instead all he wants is to taste him. So he cranes up and kisses him, hard.

 

" _What the fuck?_ " Zayn raises his brows, and he should probably think about calling this off, but it's been ages since his last good fuck and something about harry’s grin - those fucking dimples - make him write everything else off "do I even want to know?"

 

Harry shrugs in well thought out nonchalance but his eyes betray the truth- this is anything but casual and he doesn't want Zayn to walk away.

 

But he would never.

 

"You fucking weirdo." Zayn cranes up, flickering eyes over Harry's face, taking in the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the little scar on his cheekbone, the flecks of Amber in his eyes. He lingers just above his lips, his mouth quirking up on the left hand side and let's his breathing slow, wash over him "I wanna suck your dick."

 

Harry blinks down at him with big doe eyes, but Zayn has got his flies undone before harry can choke out his yeah.

 

"So hard already." Zayn trails teasing fingers against the outline of Harry’s cock before presses a palm down hard against his own dick. "Gonna come before I even get my mouth around you?" Zayn smirks up at harry from beneath dark lashes.

 

Harry hisses, thrusting against Zayn’s hand with a furious look on his eye that would be threatening if his jeans weren't halfway down his thighs.

 

"You think you're all that..." Harry muttered, blinking eyes closed as he continues his soft thrusts

 

Zayn laughs, “That’s because I am.” Impatient to start he twists his hands up and underneath the barrier of Harry’s underwear.  It’s a fucking awkward angle, but he shucks Harry’s shorts down with the other, “Think I can’t see you.” He smirks, wrapping a hand around Harry’s thick cock " _begging_ " he twists his fist up and thumbs over the head " _desperate_ for it" he picks up the pace, pushed forward by the stutter in harry’s breath "bet you've been dreaming of it" he pulls down Harry’s boxers fully and let's the cool air meet his skin, hand moving with increased pace with the added freedom "thinking about how I'd work my hand over you" he presses lips to Harry’s pulse point then grazes his stubble against his cheek "about how my skin would feel against yours" Zayn locks eyes "how long would it take?" He works his hand faster, but Harry’s thrusting harder and he's doing most of the work "how long until you come all over my hand like a teenager."

 

Harry pushes Zayn’s face away with his free hand, body wobbling hopelessly over him with one hand, all muscle strength focussed on holding himself back, not giving in, but Zayn knows men well enough by now to know that he's pushed harry to the edge.

 

“Fuck you.” His voice wobbles with it the strain, he breathes it out, it’s beautiful, this sort of power Zayn can almost taste in the air.

 

"Come on." it takes barely any effort from him to flip harry over onto his back "Show me how wrong I am."

 

Harry shucks his shorts down until they cuff his ankles, looking up at Zayn expectantly until he removes them. He keeps Zayn’s gaze, allowing him to spread his legs, and only blinking and breathing as Zayn kneels before him.

 

It’s here that Zayn finally gets eyes on him, cock blushed pink and hard against his stomach, framed by the hip tattoos that’d sparked his interest all those weeks ago. He wants to taste him; curling in on himself to trace the line of his femoral artery upwards and swallowing his scent like a delicacy.

 

He’s not done teasing, thinks back on those poolside looks, the blatant innuendos and takes his revenge. Zayn turns his attention to the sensitive skin between Harry’s thighs, placing palms on hipbones to keep him in place and then nipping teeth in a short line, dragging stubble along the skin and letting him twitch up desperately. He lets his palms drift inwards, thumbs glancing of the side of his shaft as he noses lower, grazing the sensitive skin of Harry’s sac just enough to make him keen out loudly, before he drifts away, upwards but no closer.

 

Zayn looks up from his position, chin just above Harry’s crotch and finds him keenly observed, Harry’s eyes are glassy and wide, his lips pink and drawing blood as he stares down. Zayn holds his gaze for a moment longer, rubbing thumbs in circles over his hipbones before he leans down, licking a stripe from base to tip over his shaft; slowly, leisurely, letting Harry hiss out his pleas before he moves his head away. He turns his attention to his tattoos instead, taking Harry in his hand, and tracing his foreskin with the pad of his thumb. Zayn lathes the ferns with his tongue, sucking tiny painful marks over them, moving with the impatient shifts of Harry’s hips to study them in detail with his mouth. He nips and sucks over the branches, carefully avoiding his dick as he moves from one side to the other, pressing berry like bruises into shallow skin.

 

Harry’s working himself hard against Zayn’s hand, hips jerking erratically and out of time with his raspy breathing, he looks at him through a fog of arousal. “Please.” He groans “I don’t want to come all over the Azaleas.”

 

Zayn snorts, this boy is ridiculous “We can sort that.”

 

He takes Harry in his mouth, and he’s tearing down walls with hoarse exultations, reaching down with hot hands to fist them in Zayn’s hair. Harry’s hips work in overdrive, jackhammering his cock upwards into Zayn’s mouth.  He’s relentless, and Zayn’s choking, gagging hard around the head of him. He lets Harry thrust harder, fucking his mouth, and stretching his lips until his eyes water, tears searing his skin as he strains to take more, chasing Harry’s pleasure in the wake of his own.

 

Zayn skates hands up with the intention of holding onto his broad shoulders but his nails scrape Harry’s nipple, and he jerks up with a howl. So he lingers, pinching and twisting at Harry’s sweet spot to work him harder, taking pride in the whimpers of euphoria and storing away the memories like trophies.

 

Zayn’s hand moves up, he presses two fingers into Harry’s open mouth and waits for him to latch on. He lifts himself until it’s just Harry’s crown between his lips; he twirls his tongue around him, hollowing his cheeks and suckling him, and then Harry’s returning the favour, twirling his tongue around Zayn’s fingers with relish. He works his fingers in and out, moaning against Harry’s cock as he lowers himself back down, resting as he hits the back of his throat and letting his gag reflex flutter around him. He focuses on instinct as he stays still, sucking harder and chasing pleasure on Harry’s behalf.

 

Harry smells good, Zayn notes, nose pressed to his stomach, sort of woody and musky in a way that’s surely too elegant to be considered traditionally boyish. He likes it. He scrapes the scruff his stubble against the soft skin and Harry’s whines increase in pitch, so he does it again. And again. And once more. Until Harry shifts, pushing up, working hard for it, his teeth catch Zayn’s knuckles as he works his fingers out and it’s a sharp pain that shoots straight to his cock.   
  
Zayn grinds in stiff figure eights against Harry’s thigh, the burn of the denim, and the metal of his zipper driving him wild with desire, thoughts incoherent, blood burning, eyes too aroused to stay open for longer than a split second.

 

He lifts off Harry with a pop, but he scarcely gives him enough time to whimper at the loss before he’s taking his fingers from Harry’s mouth, slipping them down and around, sliding between his cheeks and then circling his rim before Harry can moan out again.  
  
Harry begs, spine bowing up from the carpet as Zayn’s finger rubs over his hole, taunting the tight muscle. He’s desperate as he thrusts his hips down, canting until Zayn finally takes pity on him. Zayn presses in with his index finger and Harry loses control, throws his head back and closes his glassy green eyes to the world, crying out fuck fuck fuck babe like he was made for it. As counterpoint Zayn circles the base of his penis, tightening his grip and watching Harry rock back and forth, chasing pleasure on both fronts. A flick of his wrist sends stuttering muscle spasms round his inserted finger and makes all the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge.

 

"So fucking tight." He sinks his teeth into Harry’s neck, tasting, marking. Harry crowds his pale face trying to kiss him but Zayn jerks back "Wanna watch you." He groaned.

 

Zayn lowers his own hips to the floor and grinds shamelessly, nearly blind from the delicious friction created by the floor against his jeans. He has to close his eyes because he can't handle seeing harry with his fingers pressed so tightly inside him. He starts to scissor his fingers gently, grinding his hips harder to the sound of Harry’s arousal, the sound of their prep obscene in the empty apartment.

 

“You look so good riding my fingers.” He murmurs “Think you’d be good at taking my cock.”  
  
Harry stutters out a moan “More please.”

 

Zayn blinks up at him slowly.

  
“Yeah?” He presses in another finger at Harry’s nod. “You can take it?”

 

Harry's cheeks are debauched as he fixes zayn with a pleading stare.

 

" _Please._ " His voice breaks halfway through.

 

And harry makes it delightfully easy to tease him.

 

"What?" Zayn breathes out, fighting hard to maintain his indifference, but his hips are starting to jerk uncontrollably against the floor, and who the fuck cares about the upper hand anymore?

 

He twists his fingers, hitting Harry's prostate and sending him forwards into his fist with a soft whimper.

 

They share heat in more ways than one, and Harry repeats himself, “Please.”

 

  
His third finger is dry, and he wouldn't normally do this, but harrys desperation taunts him, makes him forget about normal and comfort and pushes him further towards ownership.  
  


The tip of his index grazes the bundle of nerves he'd been searching for, and Harry’s reaction is perfectly crafted; clamping down closely on his fingers, edging Zayn closer to losing his own control.

 

"Zaaaaaayn" harry wheedles, throat stretched and exposed.

 

Zayn flicks eyes down over him, and his best efforts paints his expression with a carefully schooled indifference, watching harry writhe objectively from above.

 

Only this time Harry takes action, pushing down Zayn’s jeans as far as his hands can reach, doing the rest with the soles of his feet. He holds onto Zayn’s bare hips with his hands and a determined expression, pulling him down so they're skin on skin, rocking his hips down on fingers and pressing their cocks together.

 

Harry kisses him again, mouth fast paced and frantic the harder he gets, moaning against zayns tongue as he works his fingers into him..

 

"Want you inside me." He wheedles "Please." And he grinds harder.

 

Zayn might need to bite off his tongue to stop himself from singing his consent like a canary. Because really these power plays might seem like everything but they're nothing. He cranes his next around, surveying their position to look for supplies, but coming up empty. Nothing but plants, and while it may be good for many things, he seriously doubting that Aloe Vera has contraceptive tendencies.

 

“Over there.” Harry waves a vague hand in a sweep that covers the whole room.

 

Zayn wants to thump him, less so when Harry gets a hand on him again, twisting around his shaft and doing that wrist flick that he likes. He spies a bottle and small rectangular package on the floor across the room.   
  
He clambers over Harry with shaking legs to grab them, bending over extra slowly in a rare show of exhibitionism that takes him by surprise. Harry’s smirking when he returns, but his eyes are lidded and his lip is in his mouth, as his emotions duel for dominance over his face.

 

“Do I want to know…” He lets the question trail off as he stares down at Harry. 

  
“Stop.” Harry closes his eyes to shut Zayn out, a hand fisting the base of his cock as he wriggles on the carpet.

 

Zayn crouches down, bends to suck a bruise to the soft skin on the inside of Harry’s knee “I don’t think I will.” He waits for Harry to open his eyes before he peels off his shirt, throwing it to join the rest of their clothes somewhere in the green.

 

He flicks eyes over the tendons in Harry’s neck, the pull of the muscle connecting head to torso, the upwards bend of his spine as he chases his self inflicted pleasure. He's got a hand round himself and he's jerking himself slowly, taking time to tease his head before twisting back down, and Zayn thinks Harry’s bitten lips make him the prettiest thing he's ever seen. He wants this moment tattooed on his bicep next to the girl that he'd rather forget. A hand, blessed with fingers that know what they’re doing. _Those big hands_.   
  
“ _Hurry up_.” Harry groans.

 

Zayn lies next to him on his back, smiling at Harry’s irritated grunts, trailing his fingertips over the stupid tattoos on his bicep. He can picture it, Harry’s body tightening and moving over his, sitting astride him like a King on a throne, and he doesn’t want it any other way. Watching him shiver against the whispering contact, he waits until Harry meets his eye before he speaks again.

 

“I want you to ride me.”

 

Harry’s hips jerk up violently, and he has to squeeze his base again to reign himself in “Shit.” He sits up, nodding his head dumbly “ _Yeah_.”

 

Zayn tears open the foil packet, rolling the condom onto himself with ease. Harry shuffles until he’s on his knees over Zayn’s thighs, biting his lip and watching Zayn slick lube over himself with lidded eyes.

 

Harry takes a while to sink down, and when he does Zayn forgets everything that came before, his mind overtaken by the tightness that he’s feeling, and he doesn’t want to end. He pushes his hips up experimentally and Harry’s head hangs back, face tilted up, panting out prayers.

 

He waits a moment before moving again, using his hands to encourage Harry’s hips up and down. It’s far from perfect; jerky and uncoordinated, and Harry’s still all elbows, but he does this desperate little whimper when Zayn finds his prostate that makes his balls tighten. It’s the power to his limbs that start to ache dully from the exertion. Zayn’s pretty certain that this is the most effort he’s ever put into physical activity in his life.

 

This carpet is going to shred his back. And maybe that Aloe Vera will come in handy after all.

 

“Couldn’t have done this in the library.” Harry murmurs between groans.

  
Zayn blurts out a laugh, eyes crinkling as he squints up at Harry, sleepy with lust underneath a curtain of messy brown hair. A shake of his head is his best response. 

  
Harry takes his attention again with a swirl of his hips, carving figure eights heavily down into Zayn’s pelvic bone, and he looks so good sat on him, tattoos scattered across his pale chest like a messy treasure hunt, and Zayn wants to cross off the points with his tongue.   
  
He cranes up so they’re chest to chest, and gathers the rivulets of sweat pooling in Harry’s collarbones with his tongue. He presses his open mouth against his adam’s apple as he thrusts harder up, Harry closed his eyes and groaning throatily as their new position hits a deeper angle. It’s slower like this, but better. So good that Zayn wants to cry, and probably will, if Harry keeps clenching like that.

 

Zayn can feel the familiar feeling building, and clamps his mouth down onto Harry’s neck to stop himself from wailing, sucking messy desperate marks in and leaving constellations on his skin.

 

Harry is beyond sensibility, his cock bouncing rigid and untouched with every movement as he occupies his hands elsewhere, one tearing violently against zayn’s scalp and the other unaccounted for.   
  
It works it’s way behind them, tickling Zayn’s vertebrae as he stretches round until he meets his goal, working between cheeks as best as he could. 

  
Zayn comes with Harry’s finger in his arse and his name on his lips.

 

He lets Harry do the rest of the work, limbs losing ability as Harry works furiously down on Zayn’s dick, until he’s coming too, clenching around Zayn’s softening cock and spurting come all over the place.

 

Zayn’s back has given way, and he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

 

Harry collapses beside him, face pressed to his shoulder and then he laughs “Fuck.” and it’s bright, and it’s happy, and it’s sort of the best thing Zayn’s heard in a long time.

 

"I thought we could try backstroke tomorrow."

*

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you x


End file.
